


there's going to be a party when the wolf comes home

by electrumqueen



Category: Charmed (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Bad Future, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 16:36:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5750362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electrumqueen/pseuds/electrumqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Our mother has been absent, ever since we founded Rome.</i> The Halliwell brothers make a myth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's going to be a party when the wolf comes home

**Author's Note:**

> chris-crossed is such a headfuck of an episode; thirteen years later, it still won't let me go.

“I love you,” Wyatt says. He is a young prince, gleaming and beautiful. There is magic at his fingertips and he sounds so kind; this is how he won the world. “Just come back, baby brother. All things will be forgiven.”

Chris is shaking. It’s only ever been the two of them: Wyatt-and-Chris; Chris-and-Wyatt. The Halliwell boys. Chris has only ever been half of a whole.

“I can’t,” he says. He digs his fingernails into his palms, and exhales, and amends it. “I won’t.”

 

_Rome fell. You will, too._

 

-

 

Bianca is the problem; Bianca is the mistake. Wyatt knows it from the moment he assigns her to his baby brother: she’s too beautiful, and too smart. She looks at Chris like he matters and Chris, Wyatt’s baby brother, is only used to that from one source.

Wyatt knows about economics. You want to control supply, that’s how you manage demand.

Wyatt is seventeen and Arthur’s heir; the Underworld is his. Magic has been revealed and Wyatt is the saviour of San Francisco; he who will keep you safe.

Bianca is a bounty hunter whose family swore allegiance to Wyatt early on. She’s pretty. And she’s his: the oath all of them swear to Wyatt makes sure of that.

But she _likes_ Chris. She thinks he’s sweet. Chris is fifteen, with floppy hair and a careful smile and the only person in the world he has now is Wyatt and that’s what Wyatt _wants._ Loyalty is so hard to come by.

(Chris is so hard to come by. Chris is _his._ )

Chris says, “She’s great, right?” all puppy dog eyes, because he’s _sweet._

Wyatt grits his teeth and says, “Yeah, she does her job well. Don’t get confused, though, little brother. She’s an older woman, remember that.”

He’s a good liar, and Chris trusts him. Even if Wyatt can read people, Chris can’t. Chris can think she picked him for prestige.

Wyatt knows better, but it’s not like he’s going to tell Chris that.

 

Chris is fifteen and he looks at Bianca like she could be the centre of the universe. In the worst, most galling way, she looks back at him.

Wyatt doesn’t hate her. This is a reasonable course of action. The best form of loyalty is love. She will keep his little brother safe.

Even from him, if it comes to that.

 

Wyatt looks at Bianca, and he knows she’s the end of all things.

He can delay it a little. That’s all you can ask for, in the end.

If it wasn’t Bianca, it would be someone else.

People talk about Wyatt like he doesn’t know how to take no for an answer: that’s wrong. Wyatt is just very powerful, and very impatient. If he can have it, he wants it. If he can’t - well.

He’ll live. He has time. Time to make a legend first; and that’s what endures. That’s what power is.

 

-

 

“Come here,” Wyatt says. Across worlds, Chris would hear him. Across worlds, Chris will always come.

Chris is seventeen. His best slash only friend is his bodyguard, who just turned twenty-one, and kills people all the time so they don’t kill him. She lies to him and tells him she doesn’t feel anything, but he knows better. Chris knows how to read between the lines.

Chris is seventeen. His big brother rules San Francisco, and most of California, and the Underworld. It’s his birthright: he’s the heir to King Arthur. Chris is the spare.

Sometimes, Chris thinks about Mordred. But Wyatt doesn’t like anyone enough to father a son. Sometimes, Wyatt doesn’t like anyone except for Chris.

Morgan Le Fay is Arthur’s sister, in legend. Chris and Wyatt were born into a matriarchal society. Maybe that’s how Chris will betray his brother. Chris is a witch, after all.

Mostly, Chris doesn’t think about that. It’s Wyatt. Chris loves Wyatt; he’s a good guy, mostly. He’s trying to do good things. Bring order to the city, make sure all the killing stops. Who else could get all the demons in line? Only Wyatt, since the Charmed Ones are gone.

Wyatt’s the only person who could negotiate this truce between witches and demons, and limit the collateral. Sure, San Francisco took a hit, but San Francisco always takes the hit. If it hadn’t been the war, it would have been earthquakes.

Wyatt is _Arthur._ Wyatt’s always been golden. This is what Chris knows: an integral truth. _Wyatt is important, and Wyatt will keep you safe._

“Do you need something?”

It’s been a while since Chris was in Wyatt’s office. Wyatt’s wanted him less and less; Chris misses him, but he understands. Wyatt’s really busy and all Chris does is practice sparring with Bianca, and go to class with the tutors Wyatt hired for him, and read _The Once and Future King_ the way Wyatt used to, obsessively, when he was a kid. Chris isn’t exactly pressing news, not for the guy who’s running California.

“I just missed you,” Wyatt says. “Can’t a guy miss his little brother?” He gets up from behind his big oak desk - it’s too big for him, still; he’s only nineteen even though he tries his best to be bigger, to be better - and holds out his arms.

Chris will always go to him; Wyatt will always be home. He fits himself into the curve of Wyatt’s shoulder and wraps his arms around his brother. “Missed you,” he says. “I always miss you.”

Wyatt exhales and it runs through Chris. “You could have said something,” he says, a bite of anger in it. Not at Chris; Wyatt doesn’t get angry at Chris. He’s never gotten mad at Chris, not since they fought, once, when Chris was seven and wanted to play with his toys; Chris almost died and Mom was furious, the angriest Chris remembers her being, just - incandescent with it.

“Hey,” Chris says, soothing. “It’s okay. You’re busy. You’re doing important things.”

“I’m never too busy for you,” Wyatt says, harsh. “You should know that.”

“I do,” Chris says, earnest. He leans back and looks at Wyatt, right in the eyes. He doesn’t think anyone else in the world does that, anymore.

Wyatt sighs, pressing his forehead against Chris’. “I’m sorry.”

That’s definitely not something anyone else in the world has ever heard. Chris smiles. “Don’t be.”

 

It’s been a long time since Wyatt kissed him: since they were kids, maybe. Since that horrible two and a half months right after Mom died, when it was just the two of them: Wyatt teleported them somewhere, some cave, and held on so tight Chris didn’t think he’d ever let go. It made sense, then. It was only the two of them, they were the only people in existence.

Of course Wyatt had kissed him and of course Chris had kissed back. Of course Chris had slept in the hollow of his arms and fit himself against Wyatt’s body in any way he could. Nothing had felt good; nothing had been normal.

Things are better now. They’ve been better. Wyatt’s had girlfriends, boyfriends - mostly demons, sure, but. Nice enough.

Chris doesn’t really like it. Grandpa wants him to be normal but he isn’t. Nobody is. Not anymore.

Sometimes Wyatt says they are wolves and Chris thinks that makes sense. He would rather be the hunter than the hunted.

 

“Is this all right?” Wyatt asks, fingers light on the curve of Chris’ cheek. His breath is hot against Chris’ mouth.

“Yeah,” Chris says.

It’s not supposed to be like this, but Mom’s not supposed to be dead and Wyatt’s not supposed to rule a world with a demon round table. Take what you can get, Christopher, Mom used to say.

Chris kisses his brother. Take what you can get. God, he missed this.

 

-

 

Sometimes, Wyatt dreams about wolves. They’re not usually associated with Arthur; he’s stags, noble animals of Britain. Wolves are a New World affectation; too amoral for Arthur of Britain.

Not the Romans, though. Romulus and Remus were suckled by a she-wolf, and Rome honoured that wolf forever after.

Mom was strong. Wyatt remembers that. Strong, and dangerous, and she told him to keep his little brother safe. Mom was a queen wolf and that’s how Wyatt knows he’s done what’s right.

 

Wyatt dreams about running. He’s not afraid of things, mostly. Not many things can touch him. When he’s awake, he’s a hunter. Not the hunted.

But he has this dream: in it, he’s running, and there are wolves behind him, baying. Their eyes are yellow and their jaws are dripping and he loves them. He has never loved anything so much as he loves the wolves, as they set upon him.

The only person who could kill Remus was Romulus. The only person who could have killed Romulus was Remus. But Romulus won, and so the city was named Rome.

 

“Wyatt,” Chris says. “Wyatt, wake up.” He’s shaking Wyatt’s shoulders, fingers digging in tight. “Wyatt!”

 _Oh,_ Wyatt thinks. _I took you to bed._ No shortage of that, mythologically. Lots of kings fucking their sisters; not a few fucking their brothers. He sits up, shakes his head. “I’m sorry, was I-”

“Nightmares,” Chris says, mouth twisted down at the corners. “I wish you’d talk to me about them.” He’s so young. Wyatt forgets how young Chris is, always. He’s got such big eyes.

“Nothing worth saying,” Wyatt says. He reaches out, pulls Chris against him and feels Chris go tense, and then relax. He kisses his brother’s hair, like a reward. It’s getting longer and longer; shaggy enough to put in a ponytail, almost. “I’m sorry.”

“You were glowing,” Chris says, muffled, into Wyatt’s shoulder. “Didn’t hurt me, but the pillow was smoking.”

“Christ,” Wyatt says, shaking his brother, just a little. “You should have let go.”

“Please,” Chris says, lifting his head to roll his eyes at Wyatt. “Who the hell else was gonna wake you up?”

“I could ride it out,” Wyatt says. “I usually do.” They’ve killed other people, those nightmares: lesser people. People who aren’t Chris.

“That’s stupid,” Chris says firmly. “Don’t do that. Not while I’m here.”

Wyatt laughs, a little. “My little lion,” he says. “Look at your sharp claws.”

Chris kisses him. “Don’t tease,” he says. “I love you.”

“I know,” Wyatt says, startled. He brings up a hand to curl it around the nape of Chris’ neck; he can feel Chris shiver, just barely, and lean in. “I know.”

“Good,” Chris says, bold. “I’m glad you summoned me. I missed you. This is where I’m supposed to be.”

“Should never have let you go,” Wyatt says, very softly. “But it’s all right. I’m here now.”

 

-

 

Bianca doesn’t ask if Chris is okay. This isn’t that kind of possible world. She’s too good a friend. Maybe more than a friend, if they’re being honest, but they rarely are. That is not within the parameters of their agreement.

Chris is reading _The Mists of Avalon._ He’s made his way through the traditional canon a couple of times over. Once he read _The Phoenix and the Carpet_ and tried to talk to Bianca about it; she rolled her eyes but he thinks she appreciated it. She likes him more than she lets on.

It took him a while to realise that, to get that she did actually like him. That it wasn’t just because of his brother, or her job. She likes hanging out with Chris, and shit talking with him. That’s worth more than any of the rest of it.

The thing about _The Mists of Avalon_ is that Chris understands it: it’s about the leftovers, the people in the court who aren’t really legends. That’s what Chris is. Wyatt’s extra.

 

Chris is seventeen and someone’s sent Wyatt a bottle of something from Napa Valley, so he and Bianca hole up in the apartment and reinforce the wards and get quietly drunk. It’s not the smartest thing in the world - Wyatt would be fucking pissed if he found out - but Bianca’s good at her fucking job, even a little shitfaced, and Chris grew up a Halliwell; he knows how to survive. It’s not like Chris has any other friends to get drunk with.

He’s not mad at Wyatt for it; it’s just a fact.

He’s lying on the carpet with his head in her lap. “I’m scared of him,” he says.

“Oh, honey,” she says, petting his hair. She’s not usually this nice to him. He must be pretty drunk. “That just means you’re not stupid.”

“He’s my brother,” Chris says. “He’d never hurt me.”

Bianca goes very still for a moment. “Hey,” she says. “If I tell you something right now, will you swear never to repeat it? Like - magic swear. Not even under duress.”

It’s Bianca. The only person Chris loves more is Wyatt. “Of course.”

She bites her lip. She’s so goddamn beautiful. “Most everyone who works in your brother’s court swears to him. If you take an assignment that isn’t his guard, you swear a secondary oath. Me? Mine’s just to you. I’m just to protect you. He took back my oath to him. He told me it was so I would keep my head clear, and remember my priorities.”

Chris feels hot and cold and prickly all over. “Bianca-”

She puts a finger to his lips. “Never speak of it,” she says, urgent and true.

He shakes his head. “You know I love you,” he says. It just rushes out of him, but he doesn’t regret it; it’s true.

She smiles at him, this melancholy bittersweet thing. “Yeah,” she says. “I know.”

 

Wyatt takes Arizona, and the Pacific Northwest. Factions demonic and mundane are tripping over themselves to swear fealty to him.

Not their father, of course. What an asshole.

They get a letter, one. Telling them their mother would be disappointed. Chris sets it on fire before Wyatt can see it. It’s not new news to him, even if it is to Wyatt.

Chris sleeps in Wyatt’s bed, tangled up in him. Nobody says a word about it.

 _My Halliwell boys,_ Mom used to say. _Gotta stick together._

Nobody else understands. Nobody else has a chance in hell of understanding.

 

-

 

War is easy. If Wyatt had played a game of war, he would have won long ago already. But it would be a broken victory, a bitter one; he would have an angry conquest. No: a longer game is better. Make them beg for him to come and save them. Be the hero, not the villain.

It’s not like they’re smart. It’s easy; Wyatt can smile, and make them love him.

 

It’s a little more complicated than just crushing everyone under your feet, but much more satisfying.

Wyatt Halliwell is going to be remembered. Wyatt Halliwell is going to pass into legend. Wyatt Halliwell pulls the sword from the stone and sets the world to rights.

When the world went to hell, Wyatt Halliwell was the one that saved it. Excalibur in hand.

Come on. That’s a hell of a story. You’d tell it to your kids, right?

 

Chris is reading in Wyatt’s bed. _Le Morte D’Arthur,_ in hardback, and probably French. Nerd.

“I’m not going to die anytime soon,” Wyatt says, settling in beside him.

Chris makes a face, closes the book and sets it aside. “It’s not about that,” he says.

“It’s in the title,” Wyatt says. “C’mon.” He settles a palm on Chris’ shoulder, rubbing little circles along the line of it. “I’m safe. I promise.”

“If you _promise,_ ” Chris says, laughing. He turns his face to Wyatt’s and kisses him.

“I promise,” Wyatt says, pulling Chris into his lap. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” Chris says, firm. “You better not.” He tangles his fingers in Wyatt’s hair.

Chris is so light in Wyatt’s arms; he’s always been like that. Been Wyatt’s, to care of, to keep. Wyatt’s always been bigger, been older, more powerful; more everything.

Wyatt _wants._ He has always wanted. Always wanted, and can have. He turns them over and presses Chris into the mattress, anchored with the weight of him. Chris smiles at him, half-lidded, easy. “Yeah?”

Wyatt dips his head and bites a mark into Chris’ shoulder, for the way Chris gasps into him, and the deep and primal satisfaction of it: _mine._

 

-

 

“So I’ve been thinking,” Wyatt says.

Chris is eighteen and trying to do algebra. There isn’t really any point in it, but it’s soothing: it’s like working out a potion. “Ouch,” he says. “Did it hurt? Don’t strain yourself, big brother.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wyatt says. He sits down next to Chris; puts his hand on Chris’ thigh. He smells like woodsmoke and demons’ blood and the ever present copper tang of magic. “Are you applying to college?”

“What?”

“I just think you could,” Wyatt says. He’s smiling, that sweet smile that makes demon girls swoon. “I just think you’d have fun. And someone’s going to need to know how to run this empire of mine.”

It would make Victor happy. Victor, who moved to Arizona because Wyatt told him to, because Wyatt wanted to keep him safe; Victor, who was always the only person in the family that wasn’t Wyatt who was on Chris’ side.

Victor, who always wanted Chris to have a normal life.

_Take what you can get, Chris._

 

“I think I like this,” Chris says, eating a cheese stick in the back of the library. It’s empty, this early in the semester; the sunlight shines through the big glass windows and gets in his eyes.

“You’re an idiot,” Bianca says, fondly. She steals a cheese stick and licks her fingers.

Chris wears a glamour; he’s not Christopher Halliwell, brother of King Wyatt. He’s Chris Perry, who has sandy hair and blue eyes and a shitty apartment not too far from what used to be the Mission. Chris Perry, UCSF student; double major in history and political science. Friendly, and funny, and very sarcastic. Always the person arguing that self-styled King Halliwell has what’s best in mind.

Bianca wears her hair in a ponytail. She has glasses. They take all the same classes and have the same tutorials and the same friends. Sure, she has a knife in the small of her back, but she wears a very nice bracelet and that covers up the phoenix on her wrist. Everyone thinks she’s cool. Kind of mean, but cool.

He takes a history of magic class because it makes Bianca’s eyes light up. He knows who he belongs to, what he _is_ , but he likes her so much.

 

 _My man of the people,_ Wyatt says. _My ear to the ground._

Chris never thought that he would be the diplomatic one. But it's not so bad. He's never been much good at killing: it makes him sick, and Bianca has to hold back his dumb floppy hair.

But Wyatt is keeping this family safe, and it’s Chris’ job to do his part to help. Halliwell rules: you’re family, you’re in.

 

-

 

“Not tonight,” Wyatt says, to the girl at the door. Sometimes he is patient with Bianca; Chris loves her, and he loves Chris.

She isn’t Chris. She knows the rules of the game. She bows to him and disappears.

He pads into the little apartment: two bedrooms, peeling paint, a stack of takeout cartons in the kitchen sink. Magic’s reinforced it so they don’t have cockroaches anymore, or rats, and the water runs effectively.

The wards are strong. The strongest he’s ever put up. Stronger than in his own fortress of solitude.

_Mom wanted you to have a normal life._

“This place is a shithole,” Wyatt says, sitting down on the couch. If he didn’t know better, he’d think they dragged it in off the streetcorner. It’s disgusting. “You know you deserve better.”

“I’m writing a paper!” Chris yells from the bedroom on the right. “Can you yell at me about the apartment tomorrow?”

Wyatt rolls his eyes and waves a hand; Chris is deposited on the carpet in front of him, hair sticking up, eyes slightly wild. He’s wearing pajama pants that sling low on his hips and Wyatt can see that he hasn’t been slacking on sparring with Bianca. “Did you just say no to me?”

“No,” Chris says, exasperated, scruffing one hand through his hair. “I just - sorry. What do you need?”

“Better,” Wyatt says. He’s fucking tired, for a moment; can’t help it, has to let himself sink into Chris’ shitty goddamn couch and just breathe.

Chris cocks his head and looks, really looks. “Jesus,” he says. “What happened to you?”

“Assassination attempt,” Wyatt says. There’s blood on his wrists, he notices, absently. He didn’t bother to take care of the bruises so he does that now. “Motherfuckers are getting organized.”

“You should have called,” Chris says, getting to his feet. “I’d have come. I always hear you.”

“You were writing a paper,” Wyatt says, smirking despite himself.

Chris rolls his eyes and steps forward, braces his hands on Wyatt’s shoulders and settles onto Wyatt’s thighs. “Don’t be an ass.”

Wyatt kisses him, rough and a little bloody. “Don’t hate the player.”

Chris kisses him back, just as sharp. “Jerk.”

“Bitch.” Wyatt loops his fingers through Chris’ waistband, yanks it down. Chris makes that soft little noise Wyatt loves when Wyatt gets his hand on Chris’ dick. “I hate this goddamn couch.”

“If you’re really nice to me I’ll let you talk me into letting you buy me a new one,” Chris says, tipping his throat back, whining. “God, yes.”

 

“I need you to do something for me,” Wyatt says.

Chris lifts his head off Wyatt’s shoulder, mouth red, throat mottled with the marks of Wyatt’s love. “Yeah?”

There’s a Chris who would have said _anything._ He’s slipping away. Wyatt hates it.

“There’s a cell. Revolutionaries. Just teenagers, we think, but they’re getting stronger. I need you to find out what they’re doing. This is the territory I’ve held longest.” _I need you to save me._

“Yeah,” Chris says. “Of course.”

Someone did a study. If you want someone to think better of you, ask them for a favour.

Chris has always been less flexible about morality than Wyatt. It’s important to know where they stand: Chris has never been good at lying to Wyatt. It’s just not a skill he has.

 

“Stay for a little,” Chris says, nesting in a pile of sheets. His hair is sticking right up. “Have breakfast. Let me bore you with my classes.”

Wyatt pulls a shirt over his head. Black, obviously. Black is his colour. “What, are you going to cook?”

“I’m a great cook,” Chris says. He is. He got it from their mother. “I’ll make you pancakes.”

“Oh, _pancakes_ ,” Wyatt says, laughing.

“I miss you,” Chris says. “C’mon, please.”

“This is obvious,” Wyatt says. “Little brother, you have to get better at this manipulation thing.”

“But it works,” Chris says, beaming.

“Fine,” Wyatt says. “But I want blueberry pancakes.”

“Gross,” Chris says. “Sure, whatever, king of the world. I’ll make you blueberry pancakes.”

 

There’s a fire out in the Haight-Ashbury; Wyatt looks at the smoke out of the window. Little wars. Not worth fighting. Probably a rogue witch making some trouble, or a petty argument amongst demons.

Chris catches him looking. “We could go fix it,” he says, pouring a cup of coffee. “Whatever needs doing.”

Wisely, Bianca has not yet returned. Wyatt adds milk to his coffee and takes a sip. “But I’m here,” he says. “You wanted me to be here.”

Chris shrugs. “You know why I learned about history?”

Wyatt coughs. _Nerd._

“Asshole,” Chris says. “I wanted to help you, dumbass. So you can learn from history’s mistakes. You’re a mythological king, bro. That shit is well-chronicled and so are all the things that went wrong.”

Wyatt hums. There’s whiskey on the shelf; he waves a hand and it pours itself into his cup. Just a little. “I’m listening.”

“I know you think they’re stupid, but here’s the thing: the most important thing you can do, with an empire, is making sure they remember how magical you were. How blessed. I think we can do that.”

Sometimes Wyatt forgets that Chris is his brother: it’s subsumed in love, and affection. Chris is his, who he loves; he would fight any battle for Chris, wage any war. But Chris is no damsel, no Grail to be claimed; Chris is like him, where it counts. Their mother left them both alone, and they became wolves, together.

“Okay,” Wyatt says. “So you’re saying-”

“Put out the fire, Wyatt,” Chris says, smiling, all tooth. “There’s a reason they remember Mom’s name.”

 

-

 

Chris is a good liar. He isn’t proud of it. But Wyatt is his brother and he grew up pretending to not be made of magic, so some things are inevitable, he supposes.

University isn’t like it used to be. There didn’t used to be water shortages, power shortages, minor spats of magical war in the streets on your way to class. But these things endure.

It is not hard to make his way in. He’s funny, and smart, and totally harmless, and if you want someone to sneak into a building and find papers you shouldn’t have access to, Chris is your man. He helped Wyatt build those drones, after all. He knows about tech.

 

“This is a bad idea,” Bianca says, very quietly. “You’re not going to like what you find. We should ask him to send someone else.”

He says, “Are you keeping something from me?” He thinks his voice has gone cold. He thinks he might sound like the King after all.

She keeps her head up, shoulders straight. But there’s a flinch in her eyes; he can see it. _You’re Wyatt’s brother._

People forget it. It’s easy to forget, because he has brown hair and can’t vaporize a person by thinking about it. They long ago agreed: two sides of the same coin. Good cop, bad cop. When they were kids, Wyatt just got away with more. It just made sense: divide and conquer. Whatever Wyatt is, Chris isn't. 

“Chris,” she says. _Please._

“Help me out here,” he says. “C’mon, B.”

She closes her eyes and looks away. “You don’t think you’re like him,” she says. “But you are.”

It’s supposed to sting and it does. But she wouldn’t have said it if it were true. That would be a death wish. “You’re a Phoenix,” Chris says. He doesn’t wince. This is a line he’s never crossed before. _Forgive me mother for I have sinned._ “You’re loyal to me. Right?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve only ever wanted to keep you safe,” she says. “Can you just - remember that, okay? Remember that.”

He swallows, and leans in, and kisses her. “I know,” he says, pressing his forehead against hers. “I know.”

She freezes, very still. “You’re such a fucking asshole,” she whispers, and then she kisses him back, and tells him the truth.

 

It’s a good glamour. Wyatt made it. You wouldn’t notice it unless you knew exactly what to look for: even then, you’d have to be really fucking powerful to get through the misdirection.

The girl is pretty. Not in the way that Bianca is beautiful; Bianca is a honed blade, a weapon in the night. She’s sleek and deadly; to look at is to know death.

The girl has dark brown hair that curls around her shoulders, and keen dark eyes, and a tattoo of a triquetra on her right wrist. Her voice rings out, clear and sweet. She’s beautiful like justice, like the good end of a child’s fairytale.

 _Kill the king,_ she says. _We have to kill the king._

Chris would recognize her anywhere.

She looks right through him. _This isn’t the Halliwell legacy,_ she says. _This isn’t what was promised._

 

“Promise me,” Chris says. “I’ve never asked you for anything.”

Wyatt looks at him, calm. He’s growing out his hair. It doesn’t look bad, but Chris keeps imagining what Mom would say; _you look like a hobo, cut that shit out Wyatt Matthew Halliwell._ “Christopher,” he says.

“Promise,” Chris says. “You won’t kill them.”

Wyatt stares. “Are you fucking with me?”

“I don’t care if you put them in that fucking prison you think I don’t know about,” Chris says. “I don’t care if you strip them of all their memories - in fact, you should definitely do that, that’s a great idea - but if you kill them, Wyatt, I’m done.”

“ _Christopher,_ ” Wyatt says. The room is like ice. There might, actually, be ice on the windows in Chris’ shithole apartment. “Are you threatening me?”

“No,” Chris says, taking a deep breath. He’s never thought Wyatt could hurt him; he won’t start now. “I’m - stating a fact. Do you want my information or not?”

“Torture isn’t death,” Wyatt says, calmly. “Are you sure you’ve made the deal you want?”

Chris swallows, sinking to his knees. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s - okay. Swear.”

“I swear,” Wyatt says, and it echoes with magic; he’s golden with it, beautiful. This is why the world loves him, even when it doesn’t want to. “I won’t kill them.”

Chris screws his eyes shut. _Hail Mary full of grace._ “It’s Prue. She’s the one in charge.”

Wyatt freezes. The force of his fury slams into Chris like a tidal wave. “Never ask that of me again,” he says. Deadly serious, frost in high winter. “Never again.”

Chris has never thought his brother could hurt him. He repeats it under his breath like a mantra. “I won’t.”

 

-

 

Wyatt is fighting a minor war. Nothing too pressing, but it’s in the underworld, so he can let his power entirely free. Too much power, the scope of it, will break humans; Wyatt has no interest in ruling a broken world. Demons respond well to power. They understand the value of it.

_My mother’s sister’s daughter._

He wouldn’t have killed her, even without Chris’ oath to hold back the worst of the killing rage. It’s Prue; tiny Prue with Phoebe’s eyes and Phoebe’s hands.

She was always his favourite, after Chris.

 

He brings apocalypse to the demon tribe that wishes to challenge his rule. It’s a thought, a wish. Magic is his and he belongs to it, but it belongs to him.

The underworld thrums with his name. It feels good, if he does say so himself.

Ash settles in his hair. He smiles.

In his hands, Excalibur sings a song of blood. He wonders if this is how Arthur felt, at Avalon.

 

“Where are your sisters?” She was difficult to find: Halliwell magic is powerful. Not as powerful as Wyatt is, of course. All of magic surges at his fingertips, eager like a puppy, to give him what he wants.

A little house in the East Bay: heavily warded, but the kind of wards that wouldn’t trigger probes. She’s clever; he’ll give her that.

Prue looks at him, calm and made of steel. Oh, baby girl. “I won’t tell you anything.”

“I thought you were dead,” Wyatt says. “Prue, I would have come for you. I would have come anywhere for you.”

“I know,” she says. She keeps her jaw straight, her head up. There’s blood all around them. Wyatt’s shoes slip in it.

Chris only made him promise for Prue.

The chime of orbs: Chris, wearing all black: his jacket’s just a little too big. Wyatt’s. “I would have, too.”

 _You aren’t supposed to be here,_ Wyatt says, for Chris only.

 _She’s my cousin too,_ Chris says. He’s digging his nails into his palms; Wyatt can feel the burn. _You can’t protect me from everything._

She smiles, wry. “Look at you,” she says. “That always used to piss us off, you know. That you could talk like that. It was so goddamn annoying. You won every prank war.”

“You’re just jealous you didn’t think of the thing with the ketchup,” Chris says. He’s trying to keep himself still but Wyatt knows him: every muscle in his body longs for her. To go to her. To keep her safe.

_If I could give you this I would. But some things in heaven and earth, little prince, are not within even my power._

“Say goodbye,” Wyatt says. Sharp, calm. As calm as he can be. Someone has to be in control, here.

_You promised._

_I know. I'll keep it._

Chris walks to their cousin, holds out his hand to her. “I wish you'd called.”

She shakes her head. “I wish you had,” she says. She lifts her face and looks at Wyatt. She's always had such sharp eyes. “Both of you.”

“I’m sorry,” Chris says. He swallows, and is gone.

Wyatt reaches out. The minds of lesser beings are child's play. “Tell me where your sisters are.”

Why won’t she understand? Mom told him to protect his family. That’s her, too.

“I love you,” Prue says. “I wish I could kill you, now.”

But she can’t. Because Wyatt has the most power. And the most power wins.

 

-

 

The thing people don't understand is this: if you swear allegiance to Chris’ brother, he'll defend you against hell itself. He is many things but he does not break oaths.

There is no one else on Earth who could protect Chris like Wyatt can. Wyatt tore down the world and remade it in his own image, to keep Chris safe.

Mom had said she would always protect Chris, but in the end, it was Wyatt who did it.

 

“What happened to your cousin?” Bianca’s hair falls loose across the pillow. She's so beautiful. He didn't know the meaning of the word _beauty_ before he met her.

“She's alive,” he says. His stomach tangles in knots. “He took her memory and her sisters’ memories and aged them down. Gave them to a nice couple in Berkeley. A loyal couple. I can visit them in a couple of weeks, he says. After they’ve settled in.”

“He’s Arthur’s heir,” Bianca says, quiet.

Chris traces the fall of her hair with his eyes. “You know,” he says. “I never really got it, but it's a hell of a thing.”

She reaches out, tangles their fingers together. Squeezes, once.

“Never for a moment have I not known that he would defend me,” Chris says. “The most powerful being in the entire history of magic.”

Bianca hums. Her eyes are clear and sharp. “Yeah,” she says. “You turned out okay, considering.”

 

They have Christmas in the underworld. It's nice. Bianca doesn't have to trail Chris everywhere for once; he drags his brother to the mall to buy her a present.

“This is so stupid,” Wyatt complains, glamoured up like Chris to avoid any undue attention. “We could send someone out. Amazon ships everywhere.”

“C’mon,” Chris says. “You're always saying you love me. Walk the walk.”

“You better make this up to me,” Wyatt says, smirking.

“I’ll blow you in a bathroom,” Chris says. “Deal or no deal?”

“Okay,” Wyatt says. “Acceptable.”

It’s just like being normal.

Wyatt lasts forty five minutes before slipping the glamour and demanding full attention and respect, but it's forty five more minutes than Chris thought he'd get. He eats a small paper cup of frozen yogurt and watches Wyatt establish his dominance over a particularly rude clerk.

A nice afternoon out, all things considered. Only minimal bloodshed.

 

He buys Bianca a very nice knife. She gets him a very nice dagger.

“Cute,” Wyatt says, laughing. “You know what they say about couples.”

Chris rolls his eyes and throws a pile of wrapping paper at his brother.

He got Wyatt a crown. It's a lovely wrought iron thing, set with obsidian.

He's a thoughtful gift giver. Just saying.

Wyatt got them a house. It’s a nice fucking house. It’s in the part of town that isn’t falling apart. It has bay windows and a nursery and a yard full of flowers. The wards around it are so thick you choke a little, stepping through.

“Show-off,” Chris says.

“ _I_ like it,” Bianca says. “I’m not saying no to a house. Especially not one in that area code.” Bianca is so good at saying what needs to be said, at protecting both of them. Chris has always loved the people who keep him safe.

Wyatt cackles. “See,” he says. “Told you she was the one.”

They are all practical people. They live in a world where you have to be. No time for silly things, like ideology. Or morality. Like Wyatt says: no such thing as good or evil.

 

-

 

Wyatt lets Bianca have Christmas. He knows that he could have Chris if he wanted: the knowledge is the important thing. There are other things in the world that he needs to take but not Chris, never Chris; until Chris becomes Remus, he will always come back to Wyatt. Wyatt is his alpha and his omega.

Chris comes to him anyway: just past two, on Christmas Eve. Wyatt is in bed; he’s alone. Christmas Eve is a time for nightmares.

“I miss Mom,” Chris says, very quiet. He is barefoot at the end of Wyatt’s bed: they could be in the Manor, ten years ago, in Wyatt’s bedroom, before everything went to shit.

Wyatt holds out his arms and Chris settles into them, like he used to when they were very young, and Wyatt had to kill the monsters in the closet. “Me too.”

Chris tucks his head under Wyatt’s chin. Wyatt knows nothing else in the world like he knows the rhythm of Chris’ breath.

Wyatt says, “I fixed the world.” Question, not statement. He gets like this around Chris. He hates it.

Chris wraps his arms around Wyatt and holds on, tight. “She’d be proud.” When Chris says it, Wyatt believes him.

“She told me to keep you safe,” Wyatt says. He thinks his voice is cracking. He's so tired, these days; you shouldn't be this tired, when you're twenty-one. There are so many worlds to hold together. “I did it, right? You’re safe?”

Chris exhales and kisses him. “Yeah,” he says, so honest that Wyatt lets himself go limp into the strength of him. “You did. I am.”

 

Alexander the Great was given Hephaistion. Achilles had Patroclus. Arthur had Guinevere and Lancelot both. It doesn’t end well, exactly, for anybody. But Wyatt is more than history. He’s better.

Chris is in the garden, sparring with Bianca; Wyatt raises a hand and he peels away, bowing to her.

“Hey, Wyatt.” Chris steals his coffee cup and grins at him.

“I want you to be my left hand,” Wyatt says.

“Ouch,” Chris says. “Not demonic enough for the right? Should I grow some scales, do you think?”

“It would make you too vulnerable,” Wyatt says. “You operate best in secret, I think.” _And I’m too afraid to see you hurt._ “It’s better that I’m the target.”

“Sounds like a shitty plan to me,” Chris says.

“One of us is Twice-Blessed,” Wyatt says. “It’s not you.”

Chris rolls his eyes. “You know I can take care of myself.”

 _I don’t, actually. You’ve never had to, and you never will._ “Sure,” Wyatt says. “I think you’ll be a great Spymaster. You were always better at lying than me.”

“Some of us aren’t naturally possessed of overwhelming charm and force of personality,” Chris says. “Not to mention the Sword in the Stone.”

Wyatt punches his shoulder, very lightly. He has to pull his punches a little with Chris. “Jealous much?”

“Nah,” Chris says, tickling him. “I know I’ve got you wrapped around my little finger.”

“Oh, please,” Wyatt says, laughing. “I am a man of iron.”

“Sure, whatever,” Chris says. He grins, and then settles his hands on Wyatt’s shoulders. “You know I’ll do whatever you ask of me, right? To protect you. To protect us.”

Bianca is stretching in the garden. She’s beautiful, long and deadly. A dagger gleams in her hand.

Chris catches him looking. “She’ll help, too,” he says. “Just because we’re not Twice-Blessed doesn’t mean we aren’t strong.”

Wyatt leans in, rests his forehead against his brother’s. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

 

The underworld is mostly safe. It’s where Wyatt went first; where he took that first scourging, terrifying rage. The underworld respects that kind of power, and is loyal.

Mostly.

You can stir up rebellion anywhere, if you really want to.

Wyatt is not _new_ to attempts on his life. Not even in his throne room.

The boy is wearing the insignia of the San Francisco chapter. Someone orbed him in.

He won’t say who: it’s gone from his memory. Magic. Not for lack of trying. He would certainly say it if he could; anything to make the pain stop. But he can’t, so it doesn’t.

Wyatt leaves him to the demons to do with as they will. Everyone deserves a chance to cut loose, once in a while.

 

“We stopped them,” Chris says. He’s white-hot with rage, brilliant and indignant and, god, so loyal. _Wyatt’s._ “We stopped the rebellion. It was Prue. We stopped Prue.”

Oh, baby brother. Every hero needs a villain. That’s how you make it into the history books. There is never only one enemy, taking up arms against you.

“Fuck this,” Chris says. He’s beautiful. If he was Wyatt the world would be on fire, now. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this one, Wyatt.”

Wyatt catches his wrist. “Chris-”

“I’ll bring you their _hearts_ ,” Chris says. He smiles, a wolf’s bloody grin, dripping from a fresh kill. “Call it my first act as your left hand.”

 

-

 

“This is a really bad idea,” Bianca says, threading razor wire into her hair in a neat, elegant braid. “I just want you to know that I said so.”

“Got you,” Chris says, slipping a knife into his boot. “I’ve been warned. If we die, you can definitely say _I told you so._ ”

“Magnanimous,” Bianca says. She checks her gun with easy familiarity. The sound of it soothes him, now. Reminds him they’re going to be okay. “Thanks, babe. Really appreciate it.”

He kisses her cheek. “Love you too.”

 

They have to change the glamours, just a little. Chris can work within Wyatt’s powers well enough. They’re brothers. Mom always told them to work together, that there was nothing they couldn’t do if they put their heads together.

“I’m looking for Prudence,” Chris says. “She told me to come find you.”

What’s left of the SF resistance is wary. They’ve been burned, quite literally. But Chris is a Halliwell witch, even if they don’t know it, and that kind of power isn’t something you say no to. (Just like Wyatt says. Power. Everybody wants it.)

Chris goes on resistance run after resistance run: freeing prisoners, burning supply depots. They comment on his miraculous luck but it’s a young resistance. It doesn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Some of them are nice kids. Chris would have been friends with them, in a past life. Some of them - sometimes he feels sympathetic, even. It’s not the kindest New World Order. It could be better.

That’s what they’re here for, though. They’ll make it better.

That’s not the problem. Someone higher up, someone more powerful, is feeding the resistance information. They’re not smart enough or resourceful enough to be planning this on their own. There’s no way an organic resistance has this much coordination, not across the entire continent. They’re everywhere.

No way could Chris’ awkward SF teenagers with dreams of freedom have broken into the underworld. No chance. All they want is to stop the probes and the torture. They don’t have the balls to make a real move.

 

 _Jesus,_ Wyatt says. _Can you hurry this up, little bro? I’m trying to rule the world here, not get beat up by a bunch of co-eds._

 _I’m trying,_ Chris says. _I’m getting close._

 _The two of you have been in there a long time,_ Wyatt says. _Be careful._

 

He gets the information, eventually. On a rescue run in what’s left of DC.

Their leader is a dark eyed man with a hole in the middle of his chest; Chris is there a moment too late to stop the demons from doing what has to be done.

“The elders,” the man says. “You have to find the elders and tell them what’s happened here.”

_Of course._

“Thank you for your service,” Chris says, and cuts his throat.

Bianca raises an eyebrow, but they both know gut wounds are the worst. Chris did him a kindness. What passes for kindness, here.

 

Chris chooses the top of the Golden Gate. Better rub salt in this damn wound. You can’t kill Elders, only make them hurt.

“Leo,” he says. Very calm, very precise. “Leo, we need to talk.”

He hasn’t seen his father since their mother died. He hasn’t thought of Leo in - god. A long time. He has Wyatt; who else would he need?

“You could at least call me _Dad,_ ” Leo says.

He looks exactly the same. _Exactly._ Down to that fucking ugly robe.

Next to Chris, Bianca flicks her eyes sideways, but keeps still and calm. Everybody’s got daddy issues.

“You’re supposed to be up there,” Chris says. He sounds like a child, he thinks. Like a little boy left alone at a birthday, waiting for a dad who never came. “You walled yourselves off when the war started. You left us alone.”

“I wrote letters,” Leo says, but he looks away; they both know it doesn’t matter. “Chris, you have to understand. There’s nothing I regret more. But we had to keep magic safe.”

“Bullshit,” Chris says. “You’re here now.”

“The resistance needs help. This is wrong, you have to know that. Magic isn’t meant for this, for one purpose, to rule like this - it’s meant to be free.”

“So you came back, what. To kill your son?”

“No,” Leo says. The horror isn’t false. Leo’s not going to be up for father of the year anytime soon, but he does love Wyatt. “To stop him.”

Chris shakes his head, hard, and pulls a darklighter crossbow. He wouldn’t use it but he needs something to do with his hands. He exhales, hard. “You leave. Now. You make that wall rock solid and you stay the hell away from us, understand? If you _ever_ come back - I’ll tell my brother. And you’re not scared of me but you’re not fucking stupid, you’re sure as hell afraid of him.”

Chris doesn’t sound like himself. He can hear it in his voice. He thinks he is shaking. If he could he would reach out for Bianca and she would hold his hand. She has always been strong enough for both of them.

“Chris,” Leo says, careful, crooning; like Chris is a wild animal, walking wounded. Like he’s Chris’ dad and if Chris would just do what he’s told he could make everything okay. “Listen to me. You don’t have to do this.”

“He’s my brother,” Chris says. “That means something to me.”

“You’re my _son,_ ” Leo says.

“You chose Up There over Earth,” Chris says, very sharp. The words sting his mouth, but he’s not going to make Wyatt do this. He could never make Wyatt do this. “Do it again. One last time. This isn’t your world anymore.”

“It’s yours?” Leo’s mouth twists, ugly and hard.

“No,” Chris says. “It’s his.” He shakes his head. Patricide is not his crime, and anyway Wyatt is the one of the two of them with the power to do it. “Make your choice,” he says, and orbs out. His orbs are not yet black but he thinks it is only a matter of time.

 

-

 

Chris tells him about the Elders. Of course he does; he has to. Chris is loyal.

“ _Leo,_ ” Wyatt snarls.

“Fucking asshole,” Chris agrees. “If it wasn’t for them - they’re the instigators. They’re the ones making this whole thing happen. The San Francisco kids, they’re just kids. They don’t deserve this.”

“Hold down the fort,” Wyatt says. “I believe in you, little brother.” He kisses Chris’ forehead, and waves at Bianca, and heads Upstairs. There are wards, of course. The strongest magic the Elders could manage.

He rips through them like paper.

 

“Hi, Dad.” It’s so white up here. Wyatt always forgets that; he wants to blink, rub his eyes. Nothing feels real.

“Wyatt,” Leo says, and goes to him, as though the past six years never happened; as though he never left. “Wyatt, thank you for coming.”

Wyatt doesn’t believe in sin, but he believes in loyalty. Leo is still his father. Patricide is - too petty. “You’re welcome,” he says.

The magic up here is clear air. It believes in morality; it soaks through his bones. But it’s _his_ , in the way that all magic is. It would rather be his than what it was before.

“We can fix this,” Leo says, urgent. Holding out his hands, like Wyatt is the child he left. “Whatever happened to you - it doesn’t have to mean this.”

“Give me back Mom,” Wyatt says, immediately. Sharp as a blade, bitter as fresh blood. “That’s the deal. You give me back Mom, I’ll give you back the world you want. The son you want.”

Leo flinches. “We can’t. You know we can’t.”

It’s the one thing Wyatt can’t do. He’s tried. Magic has tried. Magic loves him. But it’s against the most fundamental laws.

“Well,” Wyatt says. “That’s one way to answer.”

“ _Wyatt,_ ” Leo says. Like he used to say, _go to your room._ God, he’s been up here too long.

“It was nice seeing you,” Wyatt says. He wraps his arms around Leo, one last time. Leo is warm, and trembling, very slightly. Like a deer. Like a lamb for the slaughter. “Thanks for all the magic.”

 

It’s easy to rip all their powers from them. The magic has atrophied, all the way up here: it wants to be free. More than that, it wants to be _Wyatt’s_.

The border between the world and the Elders’ realm is strong. They wanted it to protect them, but they wanted to be able to see, and to travel. To visit. To affect change, as necessary. To set in balance anything that was lost.

They’ve lost those privileges. Wyatt makes the boundary diamond, and seals it.

_Bye, Dad._

God, power feels good.

 

The problem with Chris is this: he thinks that everyone can be saved. He and Bianca spend so much time on rehabilitation, for every witch they find. Trying to convince them that they belong here, that this is what’s right.

It works, mostly. Chris is a convincing kid. It just isn’t _expedient._

Wyatt has a world to rule.

Chris tries to talk him into sparing the kids. Like that sends _any_ kind of message. It’s not like Wyatt can blame the Elders. The Elders are a joke, a kid’s story. Nobody is going to bring those assholes back. Not on his watch.

He wipes out the San Francisco chapter. Chris at his side, with the glamour off. He wants them to know who did this. He needs them to know that Chris is _his_. That he only ever acted on Wyatt’s orders.

Chris looks at him, covered in blood. There is something like reproach in his eyes.

 _I’m sorry, baby brother,_ Wyatt thinks. _But it’s for the best. This is how you become strong._ _This is how I keep you safe._

Chris promised to bring him their hearts. Wyatt is only making sure that Chris keeps his oaths.

 

-

 

Chris is writing a senior thesis. It is on the Fisher King and the Waste Land, and implications of the Grail Myth. The way Christianity corrupts Arthurian legend.

Bianca refused to take the class with him. She sits outside and pretends to be studying for something else. She’s reading _The Once and Future King,_ though. Chris’ old copy, the one he and Wyatt shared, with both their notations in the margins. Sometimes she reads it in bed; falls asleep with the book on her face.

 _Knew you liked me,_ he thinks.

 

He steps out of the classroom and into a war zone. “Get back inside,” he snaps, slamming the door shut behind him, holding it tight with telekinesis. _Innocents. Always protect the innocent._

“Chris!” Bianca shouts. She’s in the middle of a knot of them - kids, with knives. A witch or two maybe, judging by the light of all that energy. “Get out of here!” She ducks, whirls. Stabs someone in the chest.

Like he’d ever leave her; he pulls his dagger and wades in. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he snarls. _Do you know who I am?_

“It’s a war,” says the boy; Chris cuts his throat and blinks, for a moment, at the brightness of his eyes, before he turns back.

Too late: he’s on his back, there’s a girl with a knife. Her eyes are huge in her pale face. She looks very thin and very young. “The traitor, Christopher Halliwell. You’ve betrayed us for the last time.”

“Wyatt!” Chris yells. “ _Wyatt!”_ It’s instinct. Wyatt’s his big brother. Wyatt’s who will always come.

The knife slams into his chest. Fuck, that hurts. You never get used to it. Honestly, Chris hasn’t been stabbed in a really long time. Bianca’s a really good bodyguard.

Holy fuck, that hurts.

Bianca’s screaming but she’s bloody, on the floor; her eyes are flickering and her voice is going.

He reaches out for her as he falls.

 

Wyatt says, “That was very, very stupid.” He’s smiling. It’s terrifying. It’s the smile he wore when he rose Zanbar. Now the Middle East is his. They say the parts of it that resisted are still on fire. (They are. Chris has seen them. Chris threw a match.)

Excalibur gleams in Wyatt’s right hand.

Chris coughs. Blood spatters across his hand. His shirt’s a write-off. So are his lungs, come to think of it. God, he fucking hurts.

“Shh,” Bianca murmurs, inching a hand across to him. She falls short; her arms just don’t move right, right now. “I don’t think you wanna get involved in this one, babe.”

“That was my baby brother,” Wyatt says. His voice rings in the air, like windchimes. He’s hovering, a foot off the ground, and his hair streams behind him. The ground is shaking. Everything is shaking. “And I don’t know if you’ve heard about what I do to people who touch him, but you’re about to find out.”

 

They’ll talk about it, in years to come. The way the King’s fury swept across the Bay, like a firestorm, like the Biblical plagues; devastation, over all things. When he was done nothing was left, except for the King and his little brother.

(And Bianca. Nobody talks about Bianca. That’s better for everyone.)

They’ll say, _and this is why you don’t anger the King._ _Not for anything._

 

Chris opens his eyes. The Golden Gate has cracked, and fallen into the sea. He doesn’t hurt anymore, though. When he looks over at Bianca, her eyes are closed but the blood is gone. “Jesus, Wyatt.”

Wyatt’s mouth is a straight, firm line. He’s glowing, electric. “They touched you,” he says, slowly, like he’s waking up from a deep sleep. “They hurt you.”

Chris climbs to his feet and goes to him. “I’m okay,” he says. “You saved me.”

“Mom told me to keep you safe,” Wyatt says. He sounds - lost. Chris has never heard him like this. “I promised I would.”

“You have,” Chris says, reaching for Wyatt’s shoulder, Wyatt’s hand, Wyatt’s cheek. It stings a little to touch him, but it’s Wyatt, whose magic has only ever loved Chris, as Wyatt has. Anyone else would be dead. “I’m here. I’m right here, Wy.”

“You can’t leave me,” Wyatt says. He sounds like he’s begging. He doesn’t do that. He’s never done that. “Please, Chris.”

Chris wraps his arms around his brother and pulls him in, very close. “I won’t,” he says, pressing his face into Wyatt’s throat. “Not ever.”

Around them, San Francisco burns.

 

Chris gives up on his thesis. He never does prove his argument about the Spear of Longinus.

 

-

 

“I like you,” Wyatt says.

Bianca looks at him, even. He’s impressed. Most people quake in fear. It’s not that she’s not afraid of him; he can see that, clear, plain as day. She’s not stupid.

Wyatt shrugs. “You have to know that if I didn’t you’d be dead.”

“I always wondered,” she says, lacing her fingers together. “Why you let me have him. Why you let him fall in love with me.”

“I’m not a _tyrant,_ ” Wyatt says. “People misunderstand me all the time. I just want to keep my family safe.” He shrugs. “You’ll do that. You love him. You’re strong enough to protect him.”

“I didn’t mean to fall in love with him,” she says. “It was really just an assignment. I just wanted to do my job.”

“He’s like that,” Wyatt says, fond. “He’s my brother. I’d love him anyway, no matter what. But he’s sweet. Despite everything, he’s sweet.”

“I didn’t think I could fall in love with anyone,” she says. “I really didn’t.”

“I know,” Wyatt says. “That’s why I chose you.”

She takes a step forward, stops, very still. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“Don’t be,” Wyatt says. “You make him happy. That’s all I ever wanted.”

 

He takes Chris home to the Manor. Shuts down the museum and pushes Chris down into Wyatt’s childhood bed, settles himself on top of Chris and kisses him. There’s a _Grateful Dead_ poster on the ceiling.

“This is so fucked up,” Chris gasps, but he’s spreading his legs and pulling Wyatt in, close. His nails leave marks in Wyatt’s shoulders, along his back.

“Love you too,” Wyatt says, grinning. Chris feels so good against him; _blood of my blood, heart of my heart._

He wonders if this is how Romulus and Remus played, in the shadow of the wolf, in the shadow of the city that would rule the world.

Chris kisses him, long and hot and tasting faintly of blood. He gets Wyatt’s pants open; Wyatt groans at the heat of his hand and pins both Chris’ wrists to the mattress with the force of his magic.

“Not fair,” Chris says, rocking his hips up, into Wyatt’s. “C’mon, I wanna-”

“Shh, baby brother,” Wyatt says. Magic gets Chris’ jeans off, too, tangled around his thighs. He likes Chris best when he’s a little bit desperate. He settles back and strokes himself

“Please,” Chris says, cock wet and flushed against the plane of his stomach. “Wy, please-” He’s trying to sit up but Wyatt’s magic holds him down, even as he struggles against it. He should know better by now but Wyatt knows his brother; he likes the fight.

Likes to know who’s got him beat.

It’s all about power. Chris wouldn’t roll over for just anyone. That’s why Wyatt loves him.

“I need you,” Chris says, going still and baring his neck. Pushing buttons. Getting what he wants.

Wyatt hums, low and thoughtful. He could play; he could make Chris wait, make him beg. But he’s not in the mood. Chris is his. He’ll remind them both.

Chris loves Bianca, but he _belongs_ to Wyatt.

“Yeah?” Wyatt asks. Stroking his dick, not that it needs it; not with Chris lying there, bound and flushed and begging. Like a dream. Like a fantasy straight out of being sixteen, right down to this bedroom.

“Wyatt,” Chris whines. “Wyatt, c’mon. Fuck me.” He shakes his head. “Just touch me, please. I need you.”

“Aw, baby,” Wyatt says. He leans down and kisses Chris’ shoulder, then his mouth. He’s hot, prickly hot, surging into it like he’d die without Wyatt. Wyatt could do anything to him - lay him open, lay him bare. Chris would let him. That’s what they are.

A most perfect surrender.

He lets his magic run over Chris, all the way through. Opens him up while he kisses his brother. _I love you, I love you, I love you._

“Let me touch you,” Chris begs. “Let me feel you.”

“No,” Wyatt says. “Not tonight.” But he kisses Chris again and guides himself inside. “Jesus, you feel-”

Chris tosses his head back and makes - fuck, those sounds, Wyatt could live on them forever. “Wyatt,” he says. “Wyatt, fuck.” His hands are clenched into fists.

“Love you,” Wyatt says. “Chris, always.”

“Always,” Chris says, rocking back into the rhythm of Wyatt’s hips. “Always, Wy.”

Wyatt kisses him until he comes. It’s like being set on fire. It always is.

It’s gotta hurt, of course. If it didn’t, it wouldn’t be real.

 

“I love you,” Chris says, afterwards, shaking the magic from his wrists, wrapping his arms around Wyatt. “You know that.”

“I do,” Wyatt says. “Just- I do.”

“Not going anywhere,” Chris says, kissing Wyatt’s temple. “Never.”

 _That’s what Lancelot said,_ Wyatt thinks. Or maybe remembers. It’s hard to tell, with Arthur. He lets his cheek settle into his brother’s shoulder, lets the rhythm of Chris’ breath soothe the beat of his heart. “I know,” he says. “I know.”

 

-

 

The underworld smells like salt and blood. It’s funny, but Chris feels safe here. This is Wyatt’s territory, more than anywhere else. Here, everyone bows when they see him.

Or maybe they’re just bowing to Wyatt, who has his arm around Chris.

Whatever. They’re bowing. That’s the important part.

Chris has a crown, these days. Just a black little circle, and only for down here - up there he’s Chris Perry, just some guy, the kind of guy you’d want to sit with in a bar and talk to about your life, your problems, maybe your plans to try and overthrow the ruler of the world, and then you wake up dead.

But it’s nice. It’s nice to be someone. (Mom used to say, _be careful, be good. Do what you can._ That didn’t work out so well for you, did it, Mom?)

Some of the plans he’s heard aren’t so bad, lately. Well thought out. Reasonable. There’s this power plant in Arizona that opens a portal to the underworld; taking it out would solve a lot of problems for the mortals who live in Scottsdale, and stop the witch hunt for the unregistered, besides.

Chris has never lived a life without bloodshed. In theory, it sounds nice enough. Impractical, though.

 

There was this wood nymph, in San Francisco. She talked about how she missed the trees. How Wyatt had tamed the enchanted forest, broken it to his will.

This little boy, who had made fire with his hands; they rescued him from a training facility in the underworld. He’d been put there because he wouldn’t do what Wyatt wanted; wouldn’t kill. Bianca had loved him, immediately. Taken him under her wing, taught him to fight. For our cover, she’d said. Maybe she’d even believed it.

Seth was half-manticore. He’d been enlisted into Wyatt’s corps, and fled because he didn’t think the Valkyries deserved to be slaughtered for their disloyalty.

Cara, who wasn’t even a witch. She had just - she had wanted better for all of them. The city, and their people. She’d wanted them to be free.

Even Prue. _This is not the Halliwell legacy._

Chris isn’t - he killed them. He stood there and let Wyatt do it. He _helped._

Why is he dreaming about them now?

 

“He’s not a bad person,” Chris says. “I don’t - he saves people. We both do. We always have.”

Bianca is cleaning her athame. She stops, and looks at him. “You want to know how old I was when you saved me?”

“I know this one,” Chris says. “Nineteen. There was that thing with those plant witches and the thorns and I set them on fire for you.” He grins. “First time I ever had the upper hand. I was so full of shit.”

“Was?” She arches an eyebrow. “Careful, buddy, you might get a big head, there.”

“Nah,” Chris says. “My brother’s my brother.” That’s an inferiority complex to end all inferiority complexes. He’s King fucking Arthur. Chris loves him.

She shakes her head. “You’re wrong, anyway. I was nineteen, but. This girl, this little demon child, maybe six? She had these big black eyes, I remember. She had tried to rob us, and I caught her. And I was going to kill her, and you said, _no, let’s just feed her dinner_. I’d never thought there was a world where I wouldn’t kill people, before that.”

“Oh,” Chris says. It hits him in the chest. “Oh, fuck.”

“I love you,” she says. “More than that, I trust you. I’d follow you anywhere.”

“I’d never ask that of you,” he says.

“I know,” she says. She smiles, a little. “When you’re not with him, you’re not - you become someone else. Someone who believes in good and evil.”

“Someone better,” Chris says.

Bianca shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says. “Someone else.”

 

-

 

“Have you ever thought-” Chris says, shakes his head, starts again. “Mom always said we should protect innocents. She told us to be good.”

Wyatt shrugs. “She said we should protect each other, first. It’s not like we use them for target practice or anything.”

Chris’ mouth quirks down at the corners.

“C’mon, little brother,” Wyatt says. “What did I do this time? Was I supposed to get you a pony for your birthday?” He’s pretty sure Chris doesn’t know about the village he fed to the Larknar clan. That’s need to know information, and Chris does not need to know. Chris doesn’t have the stomach for the darker sides of allegiances.

“Wyatt,” Chris sighs. He looks like Mom. “I just - sometimes I think. Did we really need the world?”

“What?” Wyatt says. “Chris, _what_ did you say?”

“We’re safe,” Chris says, softly. “We’re so strong, Wyatt. You’re the most powerful being to ever exist. Nothing can hurt us.”

Wyatt’s stomach turns. He might be sick: he might be on fire, furious. He might be scared. This might be fear, white-hot, pulsing. “You can’t believe that,” he says, reaching forward, catching Chris’ chin in his hand and holding on, very tight. His fingers dig in so tight they bruise; he heals it with a thought. “Chris, don’t you _ever_ believe that. When you believe that - that’s when everything goes wrong.”

Chris shivers. He looks - Wyatt has made him afraid. Wyatt regrets it, but it is not the worst of his crimes against his little brother, nor will it be the last. “I’m sorry. Wyatt, I - it’s okay. I was wrong.”

Wyatt rests his forehead against his brother’s, pulls him in close. “It’s all right,” he says, forcing his breath to settle, his pulse to slow. The panic eases from his blood. Chris is here. Chris is whole. “I forgive you.”

 

Wyatt’s head is so full, these days. Chris is the only thing that makes it quiet. There are so many things Wyatt is supposed to be; Chris doesn’t care. Chris just loves him. Loves _Wyatt,_ not the Boy-King of the Underworld, or the Saviour of Oregon, or the Fire On San Francisco.

These days, Wyatt doesn’t really know what he wants. To rule, he supposes. That’s how you make sure you’re safe. That’s how you make sure everyone is safe.

He doubles the guards on the girls in Berkeley. They’re getting older. Older is when you start to get into trouble and he won’t have that.

Chris says, _I love you,_ more and more. That doesn’t make it any less true, Wyatt knows. But it means he’s worried.

In his head, King Arthur says, _be careful. Betrayal comes from those closest to the heart._ Arthur’s kind of an ass that way.

 

Bianca goes on a hunt with him. Rebel demons, in Arkansas. Chris is undercover somewhere he won’t tell them; he has Wyatt’s best witches with him, so Wyatt tries not to worry, but he recognises his own concern in Bianca’s cool gaze.

She moves like Chris does. Easy to fight with, easy to work with. His guard like her, for the calmness of her breath and the fluidity of her movement.

“You’ve spent a long time with my brother,” Wyatt says. “He’s loyal to me. You would know.”

He does not rip into her mind. He doesn’t have to; he can wait, float, very light, above her pulse. She doesn’t need to feel him for him to be there.

“He loves you,” she says, the truth of it bitter on her tongue. “He’d die for you.”

 

Later, Wyatt will think about the question he asked. He will think he should have asked something else: _what would he do to save me?_

 

-

 

Wyatt made Prue ten years old again, as punishment and redemption both. Chris remembers the first time she was ten, she tripped and broke her leg. He remembers watching her grow up, her asshole first boyfriend and the time she crashed Aunt Phoebe’s car. She climbs into Chris’ lap and says, “I miss Mom and Dad.”

“I know, honey,” Chris says. His heart hurts. “But you and the girls are safe here.”

“We miss you guys, too.” Prue screws up her face. “Why can’t we stay with you?”

Wyatt kisses the top of Prue’s head. “You love the dog. And you don’t want to come and live in the underworld with me. There’s no school. You wouldn’t learn anything.”

“We wouldn’t mind. We know how to be brave.”

Chris remembers the set of her jaw, the way she looked at his brother: with love, with disappointment, with fear. She had been so strong. “I know, baby girl,” he says. “But this is how you be brave, okay? You stay here and you be good. And if you need anything ever just say my name.”

“Or mine,” Wyatt says, smiling. “You just remember that you’re the most important girls in the world.”

Prue reaches out for him, tiny hand small in Wyatt’s palm. “Love you,” she says.

“Love you always, sweetheart,” Wyatt says. “Don’t worry. When you’re older, we’ll give you crowns.”

Suddenly, Chris is sick: he knows what that means. _We’ll make you like us. We’ll tell you who to kill._ And they’ll do it, because Chris did it; because they’re his.

 

Bianca is in Golden Gate Park, picking flowers. She smiles, the sun bright behind her hair. The city is still recovering from Chris’ almost-assassination, but it’s resilient. They’re getting around the broken bridge: more ferries running, and Wyatt’s dispatched a corps of witches and demons to help speed them along.

The park is still beautiful. The air still smells clean and clear.

Chris kisses her. “Hey.”

She tucks a flower behind his ear. “Missed ya.”

He sits down beside her. “That’s so sappy.”

“Shut it,” she says, kissing his cheek. She looks up at the sky for a moment, and back to him. “You and Wyatt-”

“You know I have to go to him when he asks.” They’ve never talked about this, about Chris-and-Wyatt and what it means, late at night; Bianca has never asked and Chris has never offered. Wyatt is the King; Wyatt protects them. It’s so complicated, the way Chris loves him. The way Chris has to love him, because he would go mad if he didn’t, but it’s so much more than that.

Chris is still getting used to the world being large enough to include Bianca.

“Yeah, of course. It's not about that. It's - he kills people. After you got hurt - that was a fucking apocalypse, Chris. Like, end of the world shit.” She shakes her head. “We didn’t use to care about that kind of thing. I didn’t. Neither did you, I think.”

“That infil fucked us,” Chris says. He feels his mouth curving into a smile. “Fucking Prudence.”

“What a bitch,” Bianca agrees, dry as dust. She reaches out for his hand. “Could be worse.”

“Yeah?”

She nods. “We could have not gone on that mission.”

“True,” Chris says. God, he loves her. “We have to leave.”

“Yeah,” she says. She sighs. “Pity. We’re doing all right for ourselves. I just got tomatoes to grow in the garden.”

Chris swallows, looking down at his hands. “We don’t have to go. If you really don’t want to. We could stay.”

“Really,” she says, wry. “You and me, you think we could pretend any longer than we already have?”

“I’m sorry.” _For all the things I should have done; all the things I should have seen. Everything I should have been. Mom wanted more than this. She died for more than this._

“Don’t be. I'd rather have this than any other possible world without you.”

Chris takes her hand. “There aren't any possible worlds where I’d leave you,” he says. “In every possible world, it’s you and me.”

He used to say that about someone else. It’s still true. Even if he wishes it wasn’t.

 

Wyatt wants him in the mountains. There’s some kind of clan of snow monsters that won’t swear allegiance to Wyatt, so the troops are marching in. Chris is helping with research. Not in battle: not after his almost-death and the ruin of San Francisco.

_I just want you safe._

This isn’t self-defense. It isn’t even a pre-emptive strike. The things don’t care at all. They don’t want a war.

But Wyatt wants to fight one. Wyatt wants to rule the world. And Chris liked it. Chris wanted him to.

Even now, Chris thinks: if anyone is going to rule the world, it’s not so bad that it’s Wyatt.

He doesn’t want it to feel like goodbye, but it sort of does, anyway. Wyatt’s fingers are so familiar on the side of his face. Wyatt’s mouth is so familiar pressed against his.

He kisses Wyatt and tries to pretend he doesn’t know about all the goddamn blood. It doesn’t work. Worse: it doesn’t stop it feeling good.

That’s how he knows he has to go.

 

-

 

The power plant in Arizona blows up. The only person with the codes is Chris.

Nobody is hurt. It’s just a matter of time, and financials to replace. It will slow down the next expansion of his territory, but not by a great deal.

Chris and Bianca are no longer in their lovely little house. There is a note on the kitchen counter that says, in Chris’ familiar scrawl, _I’m sorry._

 

“You would run from me?” Wyatt thinks he sounds surprised. Not even angry, not really. It’s _Chris._ Would your own heart betray you? Unthinkable.

“I can’t stay.” Chris is twenty-one years old. Wyatt did that: kept Chris alive. Without him, no way would Chris have made it this far. Chris is not as powerful as Wyatt; he’s young, and soft, and vulnerable. He doesn’t have the steel in him that Wyatt has and that’s important, that’s what makes him precious.

Mom used to hold Wyatt tight and say, _I’m proud of you for looking after your brother. You’re so brave, Wyatt. So brave, so Chris doesn’t have to be. That’s what being a big brother is._

“Romulus and Remus,” Wyatt says. He shakes his head. “I should have known.”

“It’s not like that,” Chris says. He doesn’t look young, anymore. He looks infinitely old, and so tired. “I’m not - I don’t want your empire. I just can’t do it anymore. You know I’m no threat to you.”

“Haven’t I kept us safe? Haven’t I always loved you?”

“I don’t think it’s just about keeping us safe,” Chris says. He looks down at his feet, at the ground. “I just - I don’t know, Wyatt.”

“You’re _mine_ ,” Wyatt says. He can feel his power ricocheting through the words. He thinks he is becoming dangerous. A funny thing to think: perhaps he always was.

Chris shivers. “I know,” he says. There are sparks in his hair. Wyatt did that. But they won’t hurt him; Wyatt couldn’t. Not now, not ever. “But I think, maybe, you’re mine too. And at some point, what you do stops being love and starts being control. I think we passed that point a long time ago.”

“You promised you wouldn’t leave me,” Wyatt says. He sounds desperate. He sounds scared. He sounds like he sounded when they left him down in the underworld, alone.“You promised.”

Chris says, “You know that if you ever call me, I’ll come.” Wyatt thinks, strangely, that he sounds almost kind. Is that what you do when you love someone? You leave them? Even though you have always been half of a whole?

Wyatt could stop him. Could wrap his magic around Chris and hold him tight, keep him still. Never let him leave.

He could. He could win. He has the most power.

But it’s _Chris._

In the end, Morgan wept for Arthur. That is all you can hope for, isn’t it? When you rule the world. That someone might remember you, and someone might weep. Someone who knows you. Someone who loves you. Morgan lay Arthur to rest in Avalon, and she cried for him: a gift.

 

Mom was dying. She lay on the kitchen floor, bleeding out, and they knelt on either side of her, holding her hands. _You look out for each other. My brave boys. I believe in you._

 _Don’t go,_ Chris said. He was crying.

Wyatt remembers being so angry. That Chris was sad, that Mom was - He remembers that more than sad he was furious. He had wanted to burn the world down.

 _I promise,_ he said, swallowing all of that down, and back, and away. He loved her, after all. He loved her so much, and now she would leave him. _Mom, I promise. We’ll be just fine. I promise I’ll keep him safe._

 

“I’ll always be here,” Wyatt says. “When you want to come home.”

Chris nods. His eyes are very bright, like the heart of a star, like the water at the bridge to Avalon. “I know.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
